Aristarchos’s gate guard Mus grinned as we arrived. He’d heard every word those two young arseholes had said, and more besides, most likely. ‘Here for the rehearsal?’
His smothered laugh rumbled like distant thunder. Mus is one of the biggest slaves I’ve ever met, muscled like a statue of Heracles. A statue whose sculptor roughly shaped the marble but forgot to finish smoothing the stone. I think he’s from some mountainous land far beyond the Black Sea; one of those places where ancient Argives went voyaging when Homer’s granddad was still a boy. I pity any gang of housebreakers fool enough to come hammering on this door hoping to overwhelm an unwary porter with yells and clubs before rushing in to steal what they can.
‘Is Aristarchos at home?’ Hearing Hipparchos and Nikandros outside in the lane had given me pause for thought. ‘I’d appreciate a quick word if he can spare me the time.’
‘He is, and you’re always welcome to speak to him, you know that.’ Mus ushered us through the gate into the outer courtyard.
Thanks to Aristarchos’ ancient lineage and wealth, this outer courtyard alone was twice the size of any home I could ever hope for, with a full upper storey of luxurious rooms above the household slaves’ quarters below. All four sides of the paved expanse offered porches furnished with comfortable seats and tables. There was no need to keep such space clear for mundane tasks like setting up a loom, or a cooking brazier. This courtyard’s pale stones would never be sullied by ash or charcoal or chickens. Households like this have kitchens where day-to-day food is cooked whenever it’s called for and sumptuous banquets can be planned and prepared.
My actors and most of the chorus had already arrived. Apollonides, Menekles and Lysicrates were discussing something in a corner while Chrysion the chorus master was pacing out a transition some of the chorus were still finding tricky.
‘Zosime! Darling!’ Lysicrates bustled over to embrace her.
I relinquished her with a kiss. ‘I just need a moment with Aristarchos.’
An arch admitted favoured visitors into more private family accommodation set around a smaller courtyard. Aristarchos sat in the shade in the south-east corner, relaxing in a cushioned chair of glossy black wood. He’s much the same age as my father had been when he died, though he looks ten years younger. Aristarchos’s hair is barely touched with grey and the only lines on his face are crow’s feet from narrowing his eyes as he studies letters, ledgers and scrolls of history or philosophy.
My father got his exercise fetching and carrying in his workshop and walking the city’s streets to visit customers and suppliers. His shoulders were irrevocably rounded from years hunched over a workbench. Aristarchos still regularly visits the gymnasium to run and wrestle and hone his skills with discus and javelin.
The greenery around him wasn’t pot herbs. Wonderfully lifelike fig saplings were painted on the plastered walls, commemorating Demeter’s gift of the first fig to his revered ancestor Phytalos. He is one of those men with no need to identify himself with his father’s name and his voting district. Athens’ most ancient families command instant awe with their clan name alone. That lineage means every son of this family rides a finely harnessed horse into war as befits the nobly born. My ancestors have all marched stolidly into battle carrying shields and spears. Though the gods aren’t impressed by such distinctions. Aristarchos’s eldest son’s blood soaked into Egypt’s black earth just like my brother’s. If we ever recovered their bones, there’d be no telling them apart.
He looked up from the letter in his hand and gestured to a stool. ‘Please.’
‘Thank you.’ I shrugged off my cloak and sat down.
‘Can I offer you something?’ He gestured to a dish of olives and pine nuts on the little table to his right. Another table to his left held a further stack of documents.
I took the dish. ‘Thank you.’
Aristarchos looked quizzically at me. ‘Shouldn’t you be overseeing your rehearsal? I expected you rather sooner.’
‘I had some unexpected delays.’ I tried to cover my hesitation by selecting a particularly plump olive.
‘He’s probably right,’ Aristarchos observed. ‘Nikandros.’
I looked up, shocked, to see him smiling.
‘I take it he was still favouring anyone within earshot with his theories on his way out? He seems to think if he keeps repeating himself, everyone will eventually be forced to agree.’
Then I saw the glint in my patron’s dark eyes.
‘Nikandros and his cronies are probably right to say that my rivals are smirking into their wine cups at the prospect of the play that I’m sponsoring coming last in this year’s comedy competition. But they’re wrong to think you only won a chorus to make sure that the Phytalid name is humiliated. Patrons and playwrights are matched by lottery, and Praxiteles is an honest man. There wasn’t a voice raised against him when his fitness for office was reviewed and there won’t be any corruption uncovered when his year as Chief Archon is audited.’ Aristarchos was certain of that.
I chewed on a pine nut. ‘No one knows what to make of a play called The Builders. I should have called it something else.’
‘They don’t know what to make of the title, so they’ll be nicely curious by the time your chorus takes the stage.’ Aristarchos sipped from his cup. ‘I saw both your plays at the Lenaia. You made people laugh. More than that, you learned from the jokes that failed in your first attempt. You listened to your lead actor’s suggestions before staging a second play.’
I wanted to protest that my first play would have gone much better if that chorus leader had listened to me, to my suggestions for gesture and emphasis to enhance the words I’d written. But he had been old and set
